


Ekstasis

by lazulibundtcake



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Confident Crowley, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Holding Hands, Love Confessions, Love Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Metaphysics, One-Liners, Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Scene: Body Swap (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens), Touch-Starved, gratitude, is that even a thing, it is now and it always was
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-01-26 11:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21373504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulibundtcake/pseuds/lazulibundtcake
Summary: Or, Aziraphale Can't Keep it Together, and Crowley Has an IdeaA meditation on pleasure, physical reality, and the importance of touch.“I want to touch you,” he said, his eyes shadowed under his lashes. “Touch your -- body, can I? Do you think it’s safe?”“Do it,” Crowley said.  He leaned back on his arms. “Do it, fucking touch me, angel, please.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 82
Kudos: 227





	1. Chapter 1

_ekstasis_, Gr. “To be or stand outside of oneself, a removal to elsewhere.”

  
At first, it was just the warmth of their hands, pulses thrumming against each other, each beat seeming to flare with the words_ I love you, I love you, I love you._

Crowley sat, breathing deeply but steadily, and didn't look at him. He couldn't. If he were to look into Aziraphale’s eyes, here, in the close confines of the bus seat, he did not see how he could avoid kissing him; and that, surely, would be too much. 

_We’re on our own side_, he’d offered, and Aziraphale hadn’t disagreed, but Crowley had been wholly unprepared for the slide of warm angelskin into his grasp when they’d sat down. The whispered sparks of his callused fingers against Aziraphale’s silk.

He’d had to measure his breath carefully, after that, because inside him something felt like it was threatening to break. As though a log on the hearth of him, threaded through with orange fire, might suddenly shift, crack open, spill embers. Catch flame. 

And that couldn’t happen, not here. So he sat, still, dreading the moment the angel would let go of him.

But Aziraphale’s hand stayed firmly in his the whole winding road through Oxfordshire, and, by inches, Crowley started to relax. He couldn’t help it. His whole being seemed to want to slide down his arm, curl into the cup of Aziraphale’s fingers, and rest. 

It had been a very long day.

He blew out a deep breath. Closed his eyes. And felt, rather than fire leaking through the cracks of him, a deep sense of relief. A gratitude.

To whom? God? Her ineffable Plan? He shook his head imperceptibly, glanced out the window to where trees crowded dark at the edge of the road. Aziraphale’s ghostly reflection shimmered there as well, and he studied it for several long heartbeats before dropping his eyes. 

Gratitude for exactly this: the world. Nowhere else, he was sure, would he and Aziraphale ever possibly have known each other, become _friends_, for Hell's sake. Only this place, the middle ground: chaotic, glorious reality. 

Say what you will about the gross matter of corporation, it was how he knew the angel. On Earth, where knowledge was more than intellect: it was sunlight shining through white-blond curls; it was the gradations of scent that mark approach and retreat; it was bearing witness to moments of pleasure. These realities _existed_, and then their memories were realities, branded forever by electricity and chemicals into the flesh of Crowley’s brain. 

To still have the world, then, and their physical presence in it: he felt profoundly, deeply, grateful.

And thanks to Adam, for all _that_, when you got right down to it. Crowley recalled the Antichrist materialising Aziraphale’s body from some infernal physics, and wondered exactly how he had done it. Wondered, but wasn’t going to let it bother him. As far as he could tell, the vessel Aziraphale had been poured into was the same, down to his scent and the laugh lines around his eyes. 

And his hand, squeezing his, not that Crowley had ever had much opportunity to feel it before. Soft. Soft and warm, and solid, and _here_. 

Thank God, Satan, anyone, that he had come back from Heaven. Thank Aziraphale, of course. For making a choice.

Crowley had thought he wanted to save the world before; now, palm to palm, breathing him in, he knew with dead certainty that he would do anything to stay here on Earth, to keep touching Aziraphale. His heart clenched. 

_Crowley, the traitor._

He had to think of something. 

But he couldn’t - he couldn't _think_, really, with the angel holding his hand. His touch was too present, too warm and immediate. The smoothness of his skin, his steady heartbeat, the strength in his fingers were awakening in Crowley pieces of light that had long been dormant. He closed his eyes again, just for one minute, to bask in it. 

How could a small touch mean so much? Feel so good? Aziraphale’s hand felt like a life-raft; a rope let down to pull him to safety; a steaming cup of tea on a cold day; a sunlit glow of happiness. A _brilliant_ happiness. He could almost see it, there, behind his eyelids: a blue-scattered sky thronging with stars, pulsing with light, a white heat; and the stars were flooding into him, _filling_ him, every deep cell of him being burnished, being _shone_ \-- 

He _hissed_, snatching his hand from Aziraphale’s, opening his eyes. His arm was zinging up and down with numbness, not-quite-pain. Looked at the angel, who was staring at him.

“What were you doing?” Aziraphale whispered. 

“_Me_?” said Crowley. “I wasn’t doing anything. What were _you_ doing?”

Aziraphale closed his mouth, frowning, shaking his head. Rubbed his palms on his thighs. “I’m not – sure, really. Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Crowley flexed his fingers. The tingle there was already receding. He felt a sick emptiness inside himself where warm radiance had been, but he folded his arms across his chest and tried to ignore it. 

Aziraphale clasped his hands in his lap, lips pressed together. “Well, anyway.” Cleared his throat. “We need to come up with a plan.”

“Yeah, well. Yeah.” He clenched his jaw to bite back what felt like a howl of protest. After everything they'd gone through, they couldn't even have _that_? One small, harmless comfort? Gratitude forgotten, he cursed up and down his luck, the Plan, the whole fucked up universe for ever having set him and the angel on opposing sides.

Incompatible. That was the word. A terrible word.

He couldn't even look at him, to see if his expression matched the disappointment Crowley was feeling.

Aziraphale was still talking. “I can’t seem to work it out. _Choose our faces wisely_. Are we supposed to disguise ourselves? Shapeshift?”

Crowley took a deep breath before he spoke. “Something tells me Gabriel isn’t going to be fooled by your gardening outfit. No, they’ll find us no matter what. Unless we actually run away.” He shook his head. “But, yes, all right, that’s not a very good idea.” Risked a glance at him. “I don’t want to let them win, angel. We’ve been here since the beginning. They should bugger off.”

“Yes, well, I do have to agree,” Aziraphale said softly, “and I’m glad to hear it. Besides, if that was the answer, I really think Agnes would have mentioned it.”

“If you say so.” He sighed, crossed his legs, one tiny part of him glad to be able to move again. He despised sitting still in other people's vehicles. “So. What do you think they’ll try to do to you?”

“I, well. I imagine they will just. Cast me out.” They sat in silence, at that, until Aziraphale spoke again. “It doesn’t actually frighten me, you know, the way it once did. I mean it _does_, but I... sort of already did it. Wasn’t exactly permitted, you know. Coming back.” Aziraphale told him the story.

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh, his heart doing something funny in his chest. He leaned his head back on the seat. “You were always too good for them, angel. I mean that entirely literally. ” 

He sniffed. “_Playing with fire_, though, what do you think that’s all about? You don’t think she really means, you know, fire?”

As he spoke, he couldn’t stop from seeing again the unbearably empty inferno of the angel’s bookshop. He ground his teeth and made fists against his ribs, to keep his hands from trying to reach out to him. 

Aziraphale shook his head. “I really don’t know. But it turns out there’s a lot going on up there, that I don’t know about.” He sighed. “What about you? Do you think they’ll throw you in the deepest pit?”

“Yeah, possibly. They’ve got no imagination down there. But if I know Hastur, he’ll want the punishment to fit the crime.” He spoke slowly. “Which could mean holy water. If they could get it.”

Azirphale was aghast. “Why?”

“I, well, I used it on Ligur. When they came for me.” Glanced over at him.

“You did?”

“That was my insurance.”

“To fight Hell?”

He closed his eyes. “Obviously.”

Aziraphale was silent for a minute. “Crowley, I always thought…”

“I know what you thought.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me I was wrong?”

“What should I have said? You were determined to think the worst of me.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. Crowley lifted his head, looked at him. He was facing straight ahead, chewing on his lip.

“Angel. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I think you did. And I suppose I deserve it. Crowley. Will you – do you think you could forgive me? For being awful?”

How he longed, _ached_, to touch him, to touch his face, gather him close. Instead he gentled his voice, leaned his head towards him. “Listen, you’re here now. That’s all that's important. Really.”

Aziraphale nodded, lips set in a line. Heaved a great sigh. Twisted his hands in his lap. “Holy water, though, of all _appalling_ things. I _hate_ it. Crowley, I always feared they might try to destroy you, but I never thought – that even Hell would --"

He reached out, hesitating, touched Crowley’s sleeve. “I wish – I just wish there were some way, _I_ could take the punishment for you.”

Crowley shivered. Turned his head, looked into his eyes. “_Angel_,” he breathed.

  
***

  
They talked it out, in low voices, until there wasn’t anything more to be said. Until all they could do was wait, and picture what needed to be done.

He couldn’t help but glance at Aziraphale’s hands. What had he said, hours ago, in the pub? _Angel, demon, probably explode_. He believed, hoped, they could do this without anyone exploding, but it was still a risk. 

He thought about what he knew concerning the boundary between their physical and celestial forms, and the danger their essences might pose to each other. It wasn’t as though Crowley hadn’t wondered about that aspect of things before. 

But now he had to consider the -- warm light, whatever spirit or force it was, that had emanated from Aziraphale. Wondered if they could prevent it. Or if he could survive it. 

He stared out the window, tapping his foot, and considered again how cruel it would be, really, how monstrously unfair, if he and the angel could not touch each other for any real length of time. In any meaningful way.

He pushed the thought away. They – he - would deal with that later, but first they had to _get_ to later.

The bus accelerated, headlights bearing towards them, flashing on road signs. Crowley leaned forward. 

“_Oi_!” he called to the driver. Aziraphale looked startled. “Is this the M25?”

“This bloody piece of work, of course it is.”

Crowley opened his mouth, closed it. Tried to keep his voice casual. “I, uh, heard it was, on fire. Or something.”

“You've got eyes, look for yourself. Don’t believe everything you read on the internet, lad.”

A shrill voice rose from the front row. “M25? We’re meant to be heading to Oxford!” 

“Keep your shirt on, we’ll get there!”

Crowley sat back. “Do you suppose, he fixed – _everything_?” he hissed to Aziraphale.

“I’m almost frightened to find out.”

He swallowed. “Perhaps – perhaps your bookshop is still there? Should we - check?”

Aziraphale looked at him, looked away. Shook his head. “Yes, I’d like to, of course, but. It can wait. I think we’ve got our work cut out for us tonight. As long as you don’t mind...?”

“I don’t mind,” Crowley said quietly, and looked out the window. Everything in him wanted to lean into him, take his hand again, but he kept his arms folded. The bus drove steadily towards the bright glow of London.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley _had_ wondered about the physical aspect of things before. Many times. Couldn’t, to be perfectly honest, find a way to _stop_ wondering.

And that was the rub, wasn’t it? Crowley the quicksilver-tongued, star-weaver, time-bender, who could shift his body into a thousand different conformations but couldn’t control the hunger of his own damn skin.

Of course, he loved Aziraphale. The events of the last week had certainly thrown _that_ into stark relief. Aziraphale, his greatest friend; who had never, in his own way, been anything but kind to him.

Yes, sometimes he made him feel crazy with his misguided allegiance to Heaven, his apparent lack of common sense, his resistance to basic fun; but the fact remained that Crowley could go for weeks in the lowest of shitty moods only to have it burn off after an hour spent in the angel’s company.

So, love: is that what it was, everything that lay between them? The sum of their friendship had always seemed larger than that. You didn’t love the sea that rocked you, unthinking, in its tidal embrace. You didn’t love the sun; you just died, frozen, when it disappeared.

But there was friendship, and there was love, and then there was this other part. That felt closer to addiction. That left him, sometimes, desolate; lying in his bed as though gutshot, strung up between something that felt like homesickness and something that felt like madness.

Because the bare truth of it, the middle-of-the-night truth, was this: he had never wanted anything as much as he wanted to overwhelm the angel with pleasure. Take him utterly apart. Make every kind of love to him.

It had started as a lark, basically. An idle thought drifting across his mind after Aziraphale’s flirtation in Rome, his sweet bashful face. _Wonder what he looks like getting his dick sucked_.

He should have known better. Temptation was his job, for Hell’s sake. He knew all about seduction, and obsession, and the spiral into addiction. Understood intuitively how in humans a _noticing_ can slip easily into a _coveting_, but hadn’t known enough to be wary of that place in his own mind. Didn’t even see the cliff until he was lying at the bottom of it.

Perhaps it hadn’t occurred to him that living on Earth for so long, in human-shaped corporation, would leave him prey to the same kinds of feedback loops as mortals. Evidently it was hard to inhabit a body that mimics so much biological machinery without eventually experiencing it.

Idle curiosity, until it wasn't. Until Aziraphale had, at some point, looked at him _beseechingly_, and Crowley could never have predicted how the afterimage of those eyes would be imprinted for weeks on the inside of his own eyelids. Could not have imagined how they would unsettle him.

Most of the time he could bury it, ignore it, pretend it wasn't there. Easy enough, when there were so many other fascinating things in the world.

But going out to eat with him was always a trial. He would watch – couldn’t help but watch – and think, _he looks like that for an oyster? For a crepe? Oh god, let me love you, angel, I could make you feel so good. Let me make you feel good. Let me love you._

He could turn off those thoughts. He could hide his eyes, shove his hands in his pockets, walk wide arcs around him. He couldn't help his dreams. He would come up out of sleep suffused with pleasure, cock throbbing, the memory of Aziraphale's eyes on him, his hands, his lips. Memories of Aziraphale crying out in a voice Crowley had never heard.  
  
Sometimes he'd wake up in the middle of it, painfully engorged, and have to finish it himself. When the dreams had first started, about four hundred years or so ago, all it took was a quick wank to get it out of his system, get on with his day.

But gradually his mind started to wander in these half-dreaming states, and like a fool, he’d let it. Thinking of the quirk of Aziraphale’s eyebrows, his irrepressible little half-smile when he knew he was being teased, the way his fingers would absently circle the rim of his wineglass when recounting a story. How his eyes would slip shut at the first bite of a dish, and the glad little noises he would make. The way his gaze would flick down to Crowley's lips, over and over, when they talked.

It was easy to stroke his cock for what felt like hours, thoughts spiraling deeper and deeper. Aziraphale lying next to him, naked and wild in the soft darkness; Aziraphale sitting in his desk chair, moaning, hands tight in Crowley’s hair as he sucked and sucked and _sucked_. Fucking him out in the open, in a field of flowers, under the sky, in front of God and angels and everyone. Make him cry out in pleasure, look only at him, while they watched.

_He's mine_, Crowley would think, furiously pumping his dick, _mine, you can't ever have him, see how he loves me? See how he looks at me? That’s nothing anything in Heaven or Hell could ever do, only me, he's mine, we belong to each other, you can't _ever_ have him back, he's _mine_ \--_

\-- and the thought of the angel beneath him, of kissing him as the world shook and crumbled, of everyone else just falling away and leaving them alone on this beautiful island Earth; Aziraphale whispering something like _Crowley this is what I want, all I've ever wanted, my darling, you are my love, you belong to me_ \--

\-- that was the image that would push him to the brink: Aziraphale looking in his eyes, telling him he loved him, and he would spill, groaning, onto his stomach. Making a mess of the sheets. And then sometimes then he could sink back down into sleep, into oblivion.  
  
But more often, he would lie awake, listening to the sounds of London starting a new day. Stare into the blackness of his bedroom and think, _I am in so much trouble_.

Because the fuck of it was that, whatever this was between them, Aziraphale felt it, too.

If the angel were to never look into his face with those bottomless and asking eyes, never stare at his mouth, never brush against his fingers when handing him a bottle of wine, Crowley might have been able to burn this out of himself long ago.

But he had always had a deep, itchy part in him, a troublemaker part, and for that part watching Aziraphale wanting him was like touching a bad tooth. _Give him what he wants_, it would whisper. No. _He wants it. He wants you. Give him what he wants_. No. Never. Not unless the angel asked. Not unless he was sure of it.

Except he almost _had_, only three days ago, driven mad with his proximity, with bitterness and desperation. Because when he had pushed Aziraphale up against the wall, he had reacted as though Crowley’s snarling face in his was a _gift_, tilting his head up, eyes soft and searching, and it _killed_ Crowley to think how close they might have been to – hashing it out, finally, after all these years.

_And it might have all gone wrong_, he thought now, _with both of us so full of fear and doubt_. But who could possibly have foreseen _this_ ending: the two of them sitting next to each other, bound by word and deed, still breathing air on the planet they both so loved?

He had given him his hand, after all. Just given it freely, out of some kind of love.

Could that be part of what he had come back for, had chosen?

And yet – and this was almost unbearable – what Aziraphale chose might not even _matter_. Even if they pulled this off, escaped punishment and obligations, became entirely carefree – even if they came to each other with open arms, they still might not be able to actually _touch_ each other. Their basic celestial natures might simply not allow it.

However. Crowley had never cared much for what was _allowed_. There _had_ to be a way for them to touch, if that was what was wanted. Even if it meant he, Crowley, would have to endure some pain; as long as he could survive it, he would do that. If that was the only way. If that was what Aziraphale asked of him.

_Ask it of me, angel. Anything. Anything._

He wouldn’t, though. He knew Aziraphale, and he knew it might stay his hand forever, if he thought his holy essence could actually injure Crowley.

So it was up to him, then, to figure a way around it. He should, he really _thought_ he should, be able to. Especially if, during this swap, he could get a better look at the problem. No uncharted emotions or animal feedback loops, there; it should just be a matter of basic physics.

So that was what Crowley thought about the rest of the bus ride, listening to Aziraphale breathe, his whole body lit up with wanting. When he really should have been working out the details of the miracle they were going to try to enact. Sorting out his imagination. Getting his head on right.

Which might explain why, now, it wasn’t working.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale.

“It’s all right, it’s all right.” Crowley stopped pacing, and put his hands up. “Let me just think it through again. We can _do_ this.”

He could see it so clearly. His corporation, the glamour and flesh of it, slipping off to mask Aziraphale while the angel slid out of his own. More challenging than, say, shapeshifting, or possessing a human (although he hadn’t done _that_ in millennia), but it should be doable. But they couldn’t _do_ it.

“Come on, let’s try one more time. Right, on the count of three.” He sat down across from him, brought his hand up, and together they counted, and snapped. Nothing happened except for a _pop_ and a dimming of the lights. Crowley threw them a frustrated glance and they brightened up immediately.

“Be back,” he muttered, and strode out of the room, down the hall, to his office. Paused to pound his fist briefly on the desk. Checked his watch. 4:42 am. The sun wasn’t up, but it was coming. Completely illogical, but Crowley had always felt safer in the dark. At the least he couldn’t _feel_ anybody looking for them, yet.

Those bloody bastards. He took off his glasses, rubbed his face. Sighed.

If they couldn’t get this to work, then, _then_ he would kiss Aziraphale. Because if they only had a few more hours together... but he couldn’t, honestly, bear to finish the thought. He glanced at the TV, turned around and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Back down the hall to where Aziraphale sat at the kitchen table in a pool of light. Crowley stood in the doorway for a minute. The angel had his forehead resting on one hand. He looked as tired as Crowley felt.

Crowley coughed, and Aziraphale sat up straight. Glanced at him and shook his head.

“Please don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not,” Crowley said automatically. Then he cocked his head. “Should I be?”

“I’m beginning to suspect the trouble is on my end.”

Crowley sat across from him again. He pushed his tongue against his teeth to keep from saying anything harsh. “All right, well, can we, talk about it?”

“It just feels,” Aziraphale said, “that I am having a bit of trouble, letting go. Separating the two. Just got back into this body. Perhaps it’s hard to convince myself out of it.”

“I would have hoped that would make it _easier_.”

“Apparently not.”

“Hmm.” He leaned back in his chair, pushed a hand through his hair. Sighed. “What was it like, anyway?”

“Discorporation?”

“Yeah.”

“Well in Heaven it was... fine, but on Earth, oh, awful, really. Couldn’t _touch_ anything. I could more sense you than see you, actually.” He looked at him. “Could you see me?”

“Uh, well, yeah. Yes. I could. Although to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure it was the real thing, at first. Never happened before. _And_ I was pretty well smashed, at that point.”

“What are you saying? You thought I was some... wine-soaked hallucination?”

“Well, it. Crossed my mind.”

“You spoke to me as if I were real.”

Crowley looked at him, his luminous eyes, the way he seemed to gather to himself all the spare light in Crowley’s flat. Looked away. “Yeah, well, I was pretty pleased to see you, angel, regardless of the circumstances.”

Aziraphale sat back, blinking a little. “I was very happy to have been able to locate you.”

Crowley cleared his throat, darted a glance at his watch again. 5:01. If they started having any sort of a conversation like this now, they were never going to be able to finish what they needed to do.

He came to a decision. Sat up, stretched, felt something pop in his neck. “Listen. If we, uh, when we get through this, I’ll tell you everything that happened on my end.” He waved a hand. “Anything you want. But right now, we need to get this done. And I have to tell you, I think what might make it all _easier_, for me anyway, is if we, well -" he put his hand out, palm up, on the table between them.

Aziraphale looked at it and flinched. Sighed. “Yes, I thought about that as well. I imagine it _could_ help, but – “ he took a breath, pressed his lips together. “Look, Crowley, what – happened on the bus, I don’t think -- I’m really not sure –“

“Whatever that was, angel, it felt like something I could work with. All right?” He made a fist, opened it. “Honestly, I think if you just .... give me something to grab on to, I’m pretty sure I can do _most_ of it, but you have to -" He waved his hands, circling them, not able to say what he wanted to.

“You’re just saying if I can just – open up, you can make it happen?”

“Possibly. And _that_ – it felt, open. Like an open channel.”

Aziraphale glanced at him. Frowned.

Crowley said softly, “Can you just do it again?”

“Crowley, we agreed that our... _essences_ should _not_ come into contact, and I’m concerned that if we do it like _that_ \-- ”

“Yes, well, it’s a possibility.”

“But what if we -- _damage_ each other? What if I --” He stopped, took a shaky breath.

Crowley sat up, folding his arms on the table. “It didn’t. It _didn’t_, angel. I’m _fine_. It seems to me,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “that if you were going to destroy me, that would have been it. Poof! Game over. You should have seen the way the holy water worked.”

“I’d really rather not think about it.”

“Yes, well, that’s what could happen. If we don’t do it.” He put his hands up. “I’m just saying, whatever _they’re_ going to do to me is going to be much, much worse than anything _you_ might do. It’s just _you_, angel. How bad could it be?”

Aziraphale looked at him for a long moment. “I suppose we don’t have much of a choice.”

“There’s always a _choice_. But I don’t feel like dying tomorrow. And I suppose, yes, there’s always running away, but how long do you think we’d last, really, on some dry lifeless rock in the middle of nowhere?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Well, when you put it that way.” He took a deep breath, blew it out, and extended his hand across the table. Crowley nodded, and took it.

Nothing. Well, not _nothing_. It was his hand, after all, and Crowley stared fixedly at it, feeling, again, unable to look Aziraphale in the face. Found his eyes tracing the lines where their hands touched, each place their skins lay against each other.

They sat, seconds lengthening into minutes. Crowley closed his eyes. Tried to tamp down his impatience.

To distract himself, he mentally rehearsed what he could of Aziraphale’s mannerisms, his look, his tone. This might be terrifically hard, or, he mused, it might just come naturally. Form, after all, defines function; perhaps being full, soft, and lovely, with finely-boned hands and a melodious voice and a spine that had never known bad posture would make it easy to be precise, and gentle, and calm.

He wondered if it might even give him some insight into what it was like, to actually _be_ Aziraphale. Crowley had always imagined that to be something like standing in the doorway of a warm, lighted-up cottage, looking out into a rainy night. You could see the rain, you could see the shadows, but not yourself, silhouetted against the glow, or the fire behind you, how it beckoned.

Although – and Crowley remembered this vividly -- it had been Aziraphale, who had stood in the rain. Stood with water streaming down his face, dripping off his chin and darkening his robe, while he, Crowley, huddled next to him, wondrously dry. And they had stayed like that, watching the sword flicker in the far-off wilderness, until the angel’s voice, raised above the din of the storm, had come out of the gloom next to him. “All right, I think it’s safe.”

Crowley swallowed, gripped his hand, and felt in a rush, once again, grateful. Because he saw, now, that even though they stood to lose so much if this didn’t work, at least they had had _that_, they had had each other, which is more than so many other people could say. Because what would his life have been like, really, what would _he_ have been like, if he had never had someone to love?

Aziraphale, hand warm in his, squeezed him back. Crowley tightened his jaw, and he knew, _knew_, that they could not start down this path, but he couldn’t help it, he let his thumb sweep, back and forth, across the back of his hand, the top of his wrist. Willed this one gentle caress, in a lifetime of tacitly agreed upon non-touching, to say everything he wanted to say.

And felt a tingle of warmth – of starlight – bloom in its wake.

He held his breath, and dared to stroke his thumb again, willing him to open, but it seemed to linger, there, under his fingers.

“Yes, that, angel,” he said softly, not wanting to break it. Looked at him. “That. I felt it.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and lifted his eyes, meeting Crowley’s gaze.

And Crowley was seized with light, _clenched_ in it, but it didn’t hurt, it poured through him like sand, like stars flying, and he wanted to shout for the joy of it. Somewhere Aziraphale was still holding his hand, and that touch kept him from flying entirely to pieces. He thought – _don’t explode don’t explode_ – and the corner of his brain that wasn’t being blindingly crushed sought out and grabbed what was needed from Aziraphale, and then he _pushed_ back, hanging on to his own being, sliding out of his skin —

\-- and he was falling backwards, and didn’t know how far he might go – _light years?_ \-- until his head cracked against the tile floor.

“Crowley!”

“Oooooooouh,” he managed. Opened his eyes to – himself, staring down at him. Although he was sure he’d never worn such an expression of tender concern on his face. At least, he _hoped_ he hadn’t. He looked at his hands, which were of course, manicured, soft, and beringed.

“Did you blast me backwards?” he asked faintly.

A white smile split the face. “Quite, I’m afraid.”

Aziraphale moved behind him, grabbed the back of his chair, took Crowley’s hand, and hoisted him up. Crowley was startled to feel it between them again immediately, that hot buzz, and to actually _see_ their hands start to blur, to slide. 

“Let go!” he shouted. The chair righted itself with a thump. They looked at each other. “Christ, this is tricky.”

“Yes, yes, but Crowley, we did it!”

How jarring it was, to see Aziraphale’s brightness pouring from his own corporation. He couldn’t help but smile back. “Yes, and I suppose it will make it much easier to go back. I can only assume they’ll hold as long as we don’t, you know.”

“Yes, we’ll have to be cautious.”

“Yeah.” He sighed, rubbed his head. Put his hands in his lap. And pulled them back as though they’d been scalded, from the generous swell of his thighs. This was going to take some getting used to. “Right, we’re not out of the woods yet. Let’s go over it again. And then I’d better go.”

They talked until the sky grew light. Crowley stood, a little unsteadily, and started putting on Aziraphale’s coat.

“Crowley.” He wondered, again, if he ever looked like that, the lightness, the openness. Probably not. “Please be careful.”  
  
“I'll do what I can. _You_ be careful, too. And, angel?”

“Yes?”

“If you can avoid it, down there, don't… don’t take the glasses off. You don't want to blind everyone.”

“What?”

“The uhh,” – he gestured, helplessly – “you know, the light. In your eyes. They’ll know it isn't me, in a heartbeat.” Aziraphale just stared at him. He shook his head, took one last look, opened the door, and left.


	4. Chapter 4

There is, all around us,  
this country  
of original fire.

You know what I mean.

The sky, after all, stops at nothing, so something has to be holding  
our bodies  
in its rich and timeless stables  
or else we would fly away.  


Mary Oliver, from _ Humpbacks_

______________________

The last bite of dessert had been eaten. The last bit of whipped cream, swiped off the plate by Aziraphale’s finger when the waiter’s back was turned, slipped into his smiling mouth mid-sentence.

Crowley felt like he was in free-fall, had felt that way since his first sip of champagne. He had never seen Aziraphale laugh so much.

It was like the two of them had been tumbled by an ocean wave, come up breathless, stumbling and clutching each other. Had he not been already wildly and permanently in love with the angel, this, the full force of his charm, his unfettered happiness, would have done him in.

Nothing lay between them except empty plates. While exchanging stories, they had managed to enjoy afternoon tea, cake, and a layered parfait, and Aziraphale had lavished more praise on the food than usual. 

“To think, I might have never tasted ganache again,” he had said, forking a deeply chocolate bite into his mouth, eyes twinkling.

Crowley had wanted to take his hand right then, to squeeze it as the bitter sugar melted on his tongue -- _to be that sugar, to be that tongue_ – and yet. He didn’t know if he could bear it, were he to touch him and have him pull away – even if out of caution, out of concern. Not now, when Aziraphale was being so generous with himself. Couldn’t bear to stifle the flow of him.

Better to talk it out, first, but he couldn’t begin to imagine how to start that conversation.

_Angel all I want in the world is to touch you and I think I’ve figured out a way so if you want me please tell me, I’m begging you, tell me, touch me, anything, please --_

The meal had finished, and the opportunity was lost.

Now they were making their slow way to the bookshop. The park in the late summer evening was beguiling: a scent of damp earth as heat loosed its grip on the flowerbeds, the swoop and chatter of chimney swifts chasing insects through the clear air.

Crowley closed his eyes as he walked, taking great lungfuls of breath. Listening to Aziraphale with half an ear but becoming increasingly lost in his voice, the rich shifting music of it. The comfort of it. He had never felt so alive.

Was he? Alive? He’d never exactly known. Certainly he and the angel both had expected increasing accuracy from their corporations as they improved their understanding of humans. At this point, they surely had most of the stuff of life – bones, flesh, blood; bodies enervated by thousands of years of sensations.

But they were eternal, and phosphorescent, of entirely different star-stuff than mortals, and however much biology they could mimic, still obeyed different physics.

So either they were not quite, not completely alive, or perhaps – and he liked this far better -- they were the _most_ alive, of all physical beings. Because at this point they certainly had the most sheer living under their belts; had experienced and adapted to more phenomena than any other animal.

Whatever they were, what different species they comprised, he was sure they were the same. Because they’d grown, there, together, into their skins. And if one’s being is shaped by one’s experiences, then Aziraphale’s consistent presence had absolutely shaped Crowley. Moments spent with Aziraphale gathered like windblown sand across the millennia into drifts that pressed down onto him, and there had never been a choice but to shift, in response.

Now, in the slanting light of the setting sun, their meandering had brought them to the duck pond. Aziraphale stopped and put his hands on the railing. Stood quiet for a minute, watching the hens and drakes dabbling in the shallows, starting to bed down for the night.

Crowley leaned next to him. He felt suddenly very conscious of his own body, its movement through space, its tides of blood and breath. Whatever else he was, whatever he had chosen, he had irrevocably chosen this: to live, to exist in the physical realm.

He was also, keenly, aware of the angel next to him: the fine bones of his wrists where his sleeves had rucked up a little, the curves of his face in profile, the warmth and scent and light of him. Crowley had long understood that he was almost always aware of where Aziraphale was, that he lived like a man who knows exactly the position of the sun in the sky, even though he can’t look directly at it.

Aziraphale spoke quietly, without turning his head. “What do you think it will be like, for Adam?”

“Adam?” Crowley said. He was a bit startled to realize that, after eleven years plus six days of thinking of little _but_ the Antichrist, he hadn’t spared him a thought for about the last twelve hours.

He stretched his spine a little straighter, rolled his shoulders, remembering. “How do you mean?”

“Well, I mean just, growing up. Living his life. Do you imagine he’ll ever regret it?”

“What, stopping Armageddon? That’s _dark_, angel.”

“I didn’t mean _that_,” Aziraphale said. “I meant, more like, having given up his powers. And his, well, his destiny.” He looked out over the pond. “To live out his life as human, but know that he’s not. Not exactly. Or not only.”

Crowley shrugged elaborately. “I mean... it's the only life he’s ever going to know. Probably feel normal to him. Besides,” he said, “it’s a bit like us, isn’t it? How we conduct ourselves?”

“Oh, come now.”

Crowley blinked at him.

“I mean, I know _I_ certainly try, but _you_ don’t make any serious attempt to... do things the human way, do you?”

Aziraphale looked over at him, lips tucked into the half-smile that Crowley loved, that he fucking adored, that he wanted, in that moment, to kiss off his face. It distracted him so much that it took several seconds for his words to register.

“Hang on, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that, by your own admission, you can’t even get dressed in the morning without _arranging_ things.”

Crowley spluttered. “I’ve lived plenty as a human!”

“Of course you have.”

“Do I need to remind you I spent _ten months_ of 1399 at that _miserable_ Yorkshire charterhouse doing everything straight mortal?”

“No, I believe you’ve mentioned Mount Grace a time or two.”

“So you are really going to fault me then, for, for – _participating_ in Earth without all the bloody -- hair-shirts and woodworking? Really, I think I’ve done my time --”

“Oh definitely, you’re an absolute saint.”

Crowley rounded on him. “As if you don’t constantly use your powers for _shop upkeep_ – last month you had that Veneziani folio sitting out for six days in a row. It was pouring outside! You’re telling me there was no divine intervention keeping the pages in tip-top condition?”

“Preservation of knowledge is a _holy task --_”

“Oh go on with you.” Crowley pushed off the railing, trying to hide his smile.

Aziraphale laughed up at him. They were so close, he was _right there_, so bright and vivid before him, it would just be – the easiest thing in the world, really, to lean into him, to take his hand and say -- _Angel_\--

_Angel, what are we doing here? It’s just the two of us, now. You held my hand, you went to Hell for me, let me – let me just -- _

Aziraphale looked down suddenly, blinking. “Such a lovely evening,” he said to his hands. Darted a glance back at him and then pulled away from the railing, stood in the path. “Shall we?”

Crowley nodded, and fell in beside him. Shoved his hands in his pockets. Tried to find his earlier contentment.

It was hard, though, when he felt so full of wanting. Wanting it all, wanting everything, wanting, simply, never to be apart from him. Not for the foreseeable future, anyway.

And he couldn’t stop, then, the crush of desire he felt at the idea of endless golden afternoons spent doing exactly this, just walking with him, talking with him.

Imagine, all those hours he’d spent alone, doing Hell’s work, in the company of greedy and insipid people, imagine trading all _that_ for Aziraphale’s ready laugh; his deep stores of knowledge; his endless fascination for the things of the world.

They went on for a bit in silence, until Aziraphale sighed. “I am just thinking, Crowley, how very _glad_ I am that everything is still here. The park. The – sky, the air. The ducks, the sparrows, all those poor creatures that really didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Me too.”

“Perhaps now you and I can have a chance to really enjoy it. Since we’re retired, and all.”

“I suppose that is what you would call it, yes.”

“I don’t know about you, but I would love to do some traveling. Can you believe there are still places I have always wanted to visit and just never had the chance?”

“I’ll take you anywhere you like, angel, so long as you don’t twitter about my driving the entire time.”

Aziraphale was silent again for a long moment. Crowley glanced at him from behind his glasses. Watched him furrow his brow. Watched him delicately bite his bottom lip, worry it between his teeth.

Crowley looked away, concentrated on walking, hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

Finally he spoke. “Crowley.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so sorry that I ... pushed you over, when we swapped.”

Crowley leaned his head back, nodded. “Actually, you know, I’ve been thinking, and I’m pretty sure it was me doing most of the, uh, pushing. Trying to get us into the right places.”

“Oh, really? Was it – how was it? Was it terrible?”

“Well, I mean.” He shrugged. “It was definitely _something_, but, eh. I’ve had worse. More fun than crossing the M25, anyway.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It _was_.”

“I don’t even know what that _means_, exactly.”

“Well, it means... at least it was a _familiar_ feeling doing the, uh, crushing --”

“Are you being serious?”

“Not so dissimilar from enduring your lecture on Wagner, when you get down to it.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale looked at him, expressions flickering across his face, finally resolving into a tremulous smile. “Well. I suppose I am glad to hear that. Still, I’m just – awfully sorry, that I put you at risk.”

“Listen, I’m not saying I’d like to do it over and over again. But no harm, no foul. I’m fine.” He shook his head. “Never better. Honestly.”

“Well, that is a relief. In case, you know, we ever have to do it again.”

Crowley nodded, considering.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “And I suppose it’s good that we know now, especially since it’s -- just the two of us, how very _careful_ we need to be about, um, touching one another.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. He glanced at Aziraphale, whose face was still, facing forward.

“I, uh, well. I imagine we could figure out a way. If needed.” Made his voice light. “Couldn’t you just, not do? Whatever it was you did?”

Aziraphale looked at him, mouth open. Closed it. Shook his head. “No. No I don’t think I can.”

Crowley stopped walking. “Why not?”

Aziraphale stopped as well. Smoothed his lapels, straightened his bow tie, clasped his hands behind his back. Glanced up at him. Wet his lips.

“Listen, um. When it happened, on the bus, I wasn't – wasn’t _trying_ to do, anything. So it wasn’t – well, none of it was a miracle, actually.”

He shrugged, took a shaky breath. “It was just, um, _me_.” Touched a hand to his chest. “Feeling, how I felt. How I -- feel. And I can’t, well. Can’t seem to find a way _not_ to feel it. So.”

Crowley stood still, except for his heart, which seemed to shake him slightly with each beat. “Well. I do have a, um, a bit of an idea. Of how we could possibly make it work.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale said, looking up at him. His eyes were clear and fathomless in the evening light.

Crowley swallowed. “Yeah, but it’d still be a _risk_, angel. That we’d have to take.” He said softly, “I’d take it. Wasn’t that bad, really. And you have to know --“ He cleared his throat. “You have to know, I’d risk basically anything to – to be able to -- touch you.”

“You would?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, looking up at the sky. “If you wanted me to.” Closed his eyes, shook his head, opened them. “Do you? Want me to?”

“God yes,” Aziraphale whispered.

And Crowley fell towards him, crossing the space between them in one stride, yanking off his glasses. Put a hand on his cheek and kissed him.

Aziraphale’s mouth against his was astonishing. Crowley raised his other hand to cup his face, keep the kiss gentle, but Aziraphale put his hands over Crowley’s and then ran them up his arms, to his shoulders, the back of his neck, up to tangle in his hair, tugging him closer, oh, and his mouth was opening, his sweet wet tongue, and Crowley had imagined this kiss for years, centuries, and never realized how sweet it would be, because nothing, not one moment of his long life, had ever been so sweet.

Aziraphale broke away, breathing hard. “Crowley,” he whispered.

“Angel,” Crowley said, and kissed him again. Relishing his quick intake of breath, the warm yield of him, but yes, now, there he could sense it, practically taste it, the lazy coil of starlight that rose to brush, gently, against his lips.

Aziraphale drew back again, just a little. “Crowley, is it – do you think it’s safe?” He moved his hands down out of his hair, rested them on his shoulders. On top of his coat.

Crowley looked into his wide cloudless eyes, inches away, could still feel the wet of him on his tongue, was drunk, mad and reeling, with his scent.

“Let’s find out,” he managed, and slid his arms around him. Felt something in himself shift, tectonic, a hot fissure opening at the firm press of Aziraphale’s thighs, belly, chest against his.

He closed his eyes. He breathed his way down his cheek, his neck, to the soft place under his jaw where his pulse jumped and fluttered.

Brushed his lips there, inhaling, kissing, licking, and then sucking, mouth suddenly full as Aziraphale pushed up against him – “Oh” – and as he tilted his head back and fisted up handfuls of Crowley’s coat. “_Oh.”_

And, instead of streaming out as an arrow of stars, of piercing and invading him, the light seemed to roll over under his tongue with a purr made of static electricity. An effervescent wave that crested against him and then curled away.

Hope clawed up inside his chest. He gripped him, probably too tight, kissing his jaw, his mouth, his face; found the whole of him alive, his warm skin tasting of sugar and champagne, and underneath this staticky, hot clamor.

“_Crowley_.”

“_What_?”

“_Please_,” he said, eyes wide, breath warm on his lips, touching his cheek and then pulling away as though it burned him. “I can’t _stop_ it, and I don’t want anything to _happen_ to you, you idiot, I _love_ you.”

“Right. Ok.” Crowley closed his eyes, blew out his breath, leaned their foreheads together. “Ok. Yes. All right.” Slid his head down to rest against his shoulder, not touching any part of his skin. Breathed. “Love you, too. Angel. Just – give me a moment.”

“I don’t –“ he said, running his hands down his back, pressing into his shoulder blades. “Please don’t – don’t _stop_, Crowley, darling, please, I just – you said you had an idea?”

“I do,” said Crowley. “Ok.” His cock was a long hot stone bound up against his thigh, and he thought wildly, he could stop time, he could push him back against a tree, but no. This should be done properly. And they needed to have a conversation.

So for what he dared to hope might be the last necessary time he gathered himself back together, closed his eyes, pulled away from him. Pulled away as he had for the last four hundred years. “Come on,” he said. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, looking down, straightening his clothes, and Crowley moved discreetly away, readjusted himself to a more comfortable position. So he could at least keep walking. Found his glasses and put them back on.

They stood there, looking at each other, until Crowley turned and offered his arm. "Should be safe enough, through the sleeve."

Aziraphale took it, eyes glowing. Gave him an incandescent smile.

Had the angel always shone so brightly? Crowley didn't know. It seemed impossible that humans couldn’t see this, weren’t running away screaming, but Crowley knew from long experience that people are very good at ignoring anything that doesn’t make sense to them.

Regardless, it was like walking next to a searchlight, a beam so strong he felt it must be visible from space. Almost certainly from Heaven. And he thought, with deep satisfaction, that he did not care even one single bit. Let them see. 

_I love you_, he had said. _You idiot._

They exited the park and stood on the pavement, waiting for a break in the traffic. Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s arm.

“So, are you going to tell me your idea? I mean it did seem safe enough for that, uh – _brief_ period of time --”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “We’ll have to see. But, all right, what _I_ think, I think is that touching might do it, actually.”

“I don’t understand. Isn’t touching the, um, problem?”

“Different kinds of touch,” he said, trying to collect his thoughts.

Aziraphale looked at him. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “I have to admit I was hoping you would come up with some sort of a defense against it, actually.”

“Not sure I _could, _honestly. How did you put it? If I’m feeling, how I feel...” He cleared his throat. “Never, uh, never really had much of a defense when it comes to you, angel.”

Aziraphale looked down, pursing his lips. Squeezed his arm again and crowded in closer. It was a bit hard to walk, but Crowley wouldn’t have changed it for anything.

“So what did you mean, then? _Different kinds of touch_.”

“Different, um, _more_, rather.” He did not know how to say these words. “Using the corporeal realm. Physical reality.”

“I’m so sorry, dearest, but I am not following you.”

He took a deep breath, blew it out. “All right, so. I don’t know what it feels like on your end, but from my side it’s like – well, it’s sort of this feeling of overwhelming... happiness, and then it’s as if, I don’t know, sort of a burning starlight, just comes out of you.”

“I see,” said Aziraphale.

“And, ok, what I _imagine_ might be happening is that – well, for whatever reason, whatever you are, uh, feeling --”

“Love,” said Aziraphale. “I told you.”

Crowley had to concentrate on walking for a minute. Put his hand over Aziraphale’s, squeezed it, let it go.

“Ok, so this, love, right, perhaps it makes your, uh, spirit, I mean, you know, _you_, just sort of come... spilling out, and there’s just nothing there to keep you in. Because, I mean, holding hands is great, it’s _wonderful_, it’s very good, but it’s not... it doesn’t _do_ much, as far as your, uh, skin, feeling good, is concerned. The rest of your body isn’t really doing anything.”

He stopped, started again. “Ok, so humans do this all the time, ignoring the body to free the mind. Meditating. Fasting. Trying to commune with God. To get into the, uh, transcendent state.”

“An ecstasy.”

“Yeah, right, exactly, moving out of yourself.” He took a deep breath. “But where we’re concerned, we don’t _want_ you moving out of yourself, we want to keep you _in_ your self. So, perhaps, it could work the other way around. I’m saying if your body is, you know, _busy_, distracting, right, your, uh, _essence_ isn’t going to want to go anywhere. It’s going to want to stay put.”

“You mean, physical pleasure --”

“Should anchor you. Ground you. Yeah.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. They were at the bookshop door, now, and he had to let go of Crowley’s arm to take the key out his pocket, unlock the door.

Crowley followed him in, watched him take off his coat and hang it up.

He had long since stopped trying to pretend to himself that the appearance of Aziraphale’s sleeved arms and shoulders from that garment was anything but erotic. This time, though, he didn’t work to hide his gaze.

Shrugged out of his own jacket, unwound his necktie, and hung them up as well. Took off his glasses and set them on a nearby shelf.

Aziraphale blinked, swallowed. Pulled his eyes away and moved further into the shop, touching books, statues, the record player as he went.

“Well. I really am quite grateful that it’s all still here. Very kind of Adam, really. Can’t help but wonder how he knew what to _do_, but still. A kind boy.”

“Might want to check your desk,” Crowley said. “He left some surprises.”

Aziraphale walked over, ran his hand over the new books. “Ah yes, I see.” He looked back at him swiftly. “You know what I had on my desk?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Crowley said. He leaned back against a pillar, trying to look even slightly casual; trying to do anything besides just stare at him; trying and failing miserably.

Aziraphale looked down. Smoothed his hands over some papers. And then spoke, without turning his head. “So what you’re suggesting, Crowley, is that sufficient… physical distraction, might _prevent_ one’s essence from... going anywhere?”

“It’s just an idea. But I did, well. I felt it. When I was...” He couldn't say the words _kissing_ _you_, couldn’t say _when I had my mouth on you_. “It was _there_, but didn't try to come out. It stayed put. It wanted to --” He felt a throb in his jeans at the memory. “To feel it.”

Aziraphale stared fixedly at his desk, a blush burning high in his cheek. “And you're saying that you would...”

“Yeah. Yes.” He tightened his hands into fists in his pockets. “If you'll let me.”

“I just... it just sounds... like an awful lot of work. ” He glanced at him, gave a small, rueful smile. “I sort of just feel I should be better able to control myself.”

Crowley straightened up. "_No_. No, _don't_ do that, Aziraphale. Please.” He crossed to where he stood at the desk. Spread his hands but didn’t touch him. “Please. I can do it. Can I just try? Will you let me try?”

Aziraphale looked up at him, mouth open. “Why?”

“Because I _want_ to, angel. I want _you_. I want _all_ of you. I don’t want you to be thinking about _controlling_ yourself. Not if I’m -- not if I’m making love to you. ”

Aziraphale let out a small, wounded noise and surged into him, kissing him, soft and hot, softer than before, sweeter than before, and -- “_Yes_,” he breathed in his ear. "Yes, _please_ try, please but just be _careful_, Crowley, _promise_ me --”

“Do my absolute best,” Crowley growled, and kissed him back. Felt the push of light again, lingering at his lips. Felt it prickle up under his palm as he put a hand on the back of his neck, into his soft hair, kissing him steadily, mouths open and tongues stroking each other, _God_ \--

\-- and Crowley did hope, in that moment, to God, that this would work; that Aziraphale’s being would be sufficiently entertained, captured, enraptured, because if he had to stop now he would die, die or go mad, could not live his life without him now that he knew the wet plushness of that pink bottom lip on his own teeth, the slight burr of his jaw against Crowley’s cheek; the heartrendingly velvet tenderness of his earlobe and the exact pitch of his low cry as Crowley sucked it into his mouth, and then bit it, so gently; and he was trembling, fucking _trembling_ in Crowley’s arms.

“You all right?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes. It’s _working_, isn’t it?

“It is.” It was. It was still _there_, just -- scattered; sparks simmering up under his fingers, a lick of lightning on the tongue, but nothing _dangerous_, it seemed, so far.

So far, it was staying in place, held in thrall by the busy language of nerve endings, skin aganst skin, the corporeal magic by which pressure and heat, roughness and wetness get translated into affection, into euphoria. A binding spell.

And Aziraphale let out a shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes shut and melted against him, kissing his face, taking it between his hands, pressing their foreheads together. “Crowley. I love you. I love you.”

“Oh God, Satan, Aziraphale, I love you too.” Put his arms around him and pressed his face into his neck. Breathed him in, kissed him, holding him tight; and then their mouths found each other again, like magnets, locking together.

Crowley had been drunk literally thousands of times, had tried nearly all of the myriad intoxicants humans came up with. He’d never known you could be drunk with kissing.

His head swam as he slid his hands down his back, down until he found his arse, couldn’t help the noise that broke from him as he smoothed his hands over it, cupping the soft curves, grasping great generous handfuls. 

Aziraphale liked that, made breathy little moans as he squeezed, and squeezed again, and then they were pushing up against each other, Crowley unable to stop the rock of his hips as he pressed against – his dick, his hard dick, Aziraphale was hard for him, was rubbing himself back against Crowley through layers of linen and cotton and denim, the muscles of his buttocks tightening rhythmically under Crowley’s hands.

Every thrust was making fireworks burst inside Crowley’s head and he broke off, panting. “Oh holy Christ, can we get on the couch or something, ohhh --” Shot out a hand to grab the desk as Aziraphale pushed against him again, looking in his eyes.

Somehow they made it the three feet, Crowley trying not to stumble backwards onto it and mostly failing. Aziraphale sat more gracefully, almost in his lap. Brought his hands up and then back down, worrying them together.

“I want to touch you,” he said, his eyes shadowed under his lashes. “Touch your -- body, can I? Do you think it’s safe?”

“Do it,” Crowley said. He leaned back on his arms. “Do it, fucking touch me, angel, please.”

“I’m worried my hands will blast you.”

“Only one way to find out,” he said, and ran a hand down his shirt, buttons parting before it. Peeled it off, and then Aziraphale’s hands were on him immediately, palming his biceps.

Crowley kept still, breathing, as the angel traced his hands up to cup his shoulders, smooth along his collarbone, his neck. Waiting to see if he needed to move away.

For all his fine words Crowley had privately reconciled that this might not work, or half-work; that he might be incapacitated, or in pain, or that he might only be able to touch Aziraphale with constantly stroking fingers or a worshipful tongue.

He had not considered that the feel of his _own_ body, to the angel, might itself beget pleasure; that the slip of Crowley’s skin under his palms might so entrance the light in him that it would surge up but then stay, there, rubbing against him like a cat.

It seemed a gift, now, that he could rest, and be touched, and feel his own skin enliven like a parched landscape under the rain of Aziraphale's fingers.

They kissed, and kept kissing, and Aziraphale kept touching him, and he was slowly losing his mind. They rolled back onto the couch.

The touches started to run together, as the angel licked the inside of his mouth and kissed his face, his neck, his fingers, got his hands up under his vest and was palming his belly, his chest.

Crowley reared up onto his knees, stripped the vest off over his head. Stared, flummoxed, down at Aziraphale, still fully dressed and completely disheveled.

Aziraphale's gaze traveled up his body, to meet his eyes. His lips parted. He brought his hand up, pulled open his bowtie with two swift tugs, undid his top button with the grace of long habit.

That offering, the suddenly bare hollow of his throat, made Crowley's cock throb hard and his balls draw up tight and he leaned back just for a minute, to recover, but there was to be no rest for him.

As he knelt there straddling his thighs, quick as anything Aziraphale reached up, undid belt and zipper, drew his achingly hard cock from the confines of his jeans.

His soft touch was electric. Crowley bent back like a bow, mouth open, thrusting helplessly into his deft, sure hands.

“Still safe?” Aziraphale whispered.

He had never imagined the angel grasping him so tightly, pumping, eyes watching him.

Some small part of him was still monitoring the sizzle of light under Aziraphale’s palms, but he couldn’t begin to move away from it, pleasure like a spike being driven into his brain.

"Yes,” he gasped, “Yes but angel, _wait_, I'm going to --" He moved to still his hands, but Aziraphale had a grip like iron.

"Oh, _yes_, _please_, darling, come for me, come all over me, Crowley, _please_ -"

Crowley groaned, and there was nothing, nothing he could do to hold back. He closed his eyes as the first red wave crashed through him, but then opened them to watch, unbelieving, as he pulsed onto Aziraphale's chin, his shirt, his _waistcoat_, for God's sake, Crowley was going to have his work cut out for him removing stains.

He fell forward onto his hands, desperate to kiss him, not wanting to smear the wetness on both of them, dick continuing to throb as he slid his tongue around Aziraphale's warm mouth.

His mind cleared, a little, and what was he doing? Crowley snapped immediately and vanished Aziraphale's clothes, his own. His skin seemed to light up as it was met with soft warm silk at all points of contact.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He kissed him appreciatively. “You’re _dirty_, angel.

"You looked like a god," Aziraphale whispered. Crowley pulled back to look at him. His face was flushed, his eyes closed.

Crowley felt as though his bones were hollow, as though he was filling up with air, as he came to the slow realization of all the things Aziraphale must have thought, wanted to say, that had gone unsaid. The whole uncharted landscape of his desire.

He was grateful to have a brief presence of mind, in that moment, to appreciate the sight before him. 

How many times had he pictured this, Aziraphale naked below him? His glowing, golden, peach and cream body spread out before him? Aziraphale, who quivered under Crowley's hands like a plucked string, who reached for him, smiling, eyes overflowing with love?

Crowley threw himself back into his embrace, and had no other thought than to get his mouth all over him, grab handfuls of him. Aziraphale clung to him, kissing him like he was drowning and Crowley was air.

Crowley worked his hand down between them. Stroked him there and felt warm light bloom up to meet him but then fall back with a sigh, and then push up again, and Crowley broke off kissing him because he needed his cock in his mouth, immediately, all of it.

He slid down his body, and Aziraphale said “Oh,” and put his hands over his face.

Crowley settled in between his thighs, smelling, kissing, rubbing his cheek on the velvet heat of him and Aziraphale clutched his shoulders – “please, please, please” – and Crowley brought it into his mouth, oh he had wondered for years what Aziraphale’s cock would taste like and now he could never unknow it, could never unlearn his sweet smell mixed with musk and salt and quivering light.

Aziraphale’s hands fluttered over him, touching his hair and then pulling back until Crowley reached up and found one. Put it on his head and then tightened his fist around it, so that the angel was holding a handful of his hair.

Aziraphale moaned, low in his throat. Slid his other hand in as well, fingers tracing patterns against Crowley’s scalp.

Crowley leaned into that touch, wanting almost to purr, to lie there and suck and purr. Feeling so -- _greedy_ for this, this exact moment, wanted it to go on and on and on, just the perfect world of the angel’s cock in his mouth, the flesh of his thigh squeezed between his fingers; anything to keep Aziraphale touching him, writhing under him, flooding forth with those exquisite noises.

He lapped his way up to his slit, salty ooze welling there like the gooey center of a chocolate. Pulled his fingers down through his soft, soft, unbelievably soft curls, nested his balls, heavy and tight, in the palm of his hand.

Aziraphale was gasping, almost crying. “Crowley, Crowley, _please_, love, God, _please --_” and Crowley felt his fingers tighten in his hair, satin-smooth cockhead slipping wet against his lips and he let Aziraphale break them apart, swallowed as much of that unyielding heat as he could as the angel fucked up into his mouth.

And that was all it took. Aziraphale’s whole torso rose up from the couch and slammed back down and his hips thrust up and his hands clutched Crowley’s hair with surprising strength, and Crowley hoped fervently that the pleasure-spell was enough to hold his being in place because if it broke out now and invaded him Crowley didn’t think he could push away if he wanted to, and he didn’t even have the will to want that, so he might just die, happy, drowning in light, drinking Aziraphale’s hot come.

Finally Aziraphale released his grip. His hands moved again in Crowley’s hair, stroking it, smoothing down the planes of his face, his jaw.

Crowley slowly pulled the flat of his tongue up the length of him, wringing out the last drops. Took it in his hand, kissed it, lay it against his cheek. Rested his forehead against the angel’s plush thigh.

He swallowed against the slick bitterness in his throat, loving the burn of it that he could feel all the way down to his stomach, like whiskey. Loved that he had some of Aziraphale, still, inside of him.

Aziraphale’s hands were urging him upwards, pulling him into an embrace. Crowley wiped his mouth and kissed him.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered. Because neither of them saw any reason the couch wouldn’t be wide enough for them to lie comfortably side by side, it was so.

Aziraphale kept stroking Crowley’s hair, pushing it off his forehead, slipping his fingertips through the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Crowley felt spellbound by his touch.

It was no accident, he thought dreamily, that pleasure of the skin was something that could hold Aziraphale’s ethereal being in place. A powerful phenomenon, a powerful medicine. He himself felt like he existed most fully under those fingers, touch drawing him up like iron filings to a magnet.

Crowley felt no push of light from his hand, could sense only his corporeal warmth, and wondered. Perhaps his skin was sated for now, or his spirit, or his hunger, or something. Perhaps _having_ did something that _longing_ did not. Perhaps his being was perfectly happy to sit here. Content.

He was, apparently, never going to be able to look into Aziraphale’s eyes without feeling like he was falling, and he never wanted to look anywhere else.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” Aziraphale whispered. He closed his eyes, smiled a small smile. Opened them. “I never really thought I’d ever get to have you. Not like this.” He traced his hand down his neck, to his chest, his belly.

“You’ve always had me,” Crowley said. He reached for his hand and brought it to his lips, kissing his fingers, turning it over to kiss his palm.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Wrapped his arms around him and drew him close. They lay like that for a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last chapter turned into a monstrosity, so for, uh, ease of navigation I broke it into two. Chapter five should be up soon, I hope.
> 
> I'm indebted here to the people who observed that Aziraphale's methods of old book handling were shit. <3.

**Author's Note:**

> I debated a long time about whether to post this in chapters, finally decided to do it to hold myself accountable for the rest.
> 
> I started this in September after the whole "they held hands on the bus" thing dropped, in part because that rocked my whole headcanon, and also because it made realize I hadn't taken into account the explicit love and trust that the body swap would have entailed, or the physicality of it.
> 
> Please enjoy! Come find me on Tumblr @lazulibundtcake


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